


If You're Going Then Go

by Newt_salamander



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, I WROTE THIS FOR ENGLISH, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Red Scare, au where they get found out before 1957
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newt_salamander/pseuds/Newt_salamander
Summary: Curt has a tendency to notice things about how his lover copes with his emotions.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 25
Kudos: 79





	If You're Going Then Go

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with Curtwen angst, this time it's historically accurate!

He’ll whistle when he's sad, Curt had realized. He’ll whistle that song by Billie Holiday— “Gloomy Sunday". Curt couldn’t stand the song. Yet, when Owen sang it, it felt different. It felt _alive._ It wasn’t about giving up, it wasn’t about resignation. It was about a man who’s name he didn’t know and whose life he didn’t share. Owen will laugh when Curt tries to sing along to the humming, and he’ll give Curt that goofy grin that made him melt. 

“You know, that song’s sad.” Curt had said one day.

“It’s not sad, Curt. It’s beautiful.” He responded frankly. He always acted like he was better than Curt. He’d say something haughty, and roll his eyes at him. Unbeknownst to him, Curt had known him long enough to know that haughtiness was his deflection. 

“What’s up, then?” 

He froze.

“Nothing. Just looking at that list McCarthy put out.” He shuffled through some more case files before Curt stopped him. 

“Tailgunner Joe? That man can’t even get his numbers right, don’t listen to him.” Curt insisted, trying to make Owen feel better. 

He shook his head, pointing at one of the “cases” of communism. _Case 14- suspected homosexual._ Curt’s heart stopped. He let out a little “oh” and sat back down, shaken. A minute passed before Curt spoke up. “Can you whistle again?”

He’ll get quiet when he’s angry. He’ll look like he’s about to scream in your face, but then he’ll close his mouth and look down. Curt never liked when he did that, it made him feel guilty. Owen will just shut up and walk out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and regrets. Curt had learned very early in his life to never be left alone with your thoughts. It made them all too real. Working with the government had its perks— you could never get time to yourself. Someone was always watching, _waiting._ When you’re always looking over your shoulder you don’t have the time to worry about how your mother wrote to you asking if you’ll ever meet a woman. You don’t have time to contemplate the looks your coworkers give you when you walk into a room. 

Owen was sitting on a bed in Paris. Curt always loved Paris. Owen was reading a newspaper out loud. Curt didn’t really like newspapers. Newspapers meant bad news.

“Executive order 10450.” _Ah, executive orders. Never good._ “Any criminal, infamous, dishonest, immoral,” Curt snorted. He continued. “Or notoriously disgraceful conduct, habitual use of intoxicants to excess, drug addiction, or…” He trailed off at the end. He closed his mouth with an audible click, folding the newspaper back up. 

“Why’d you stop?” Curt asked, trying to trick his mind into believing the pit in his stomach was curiosity and not something else. 

_It’s not important_ his head shake told Curt. Curt felt like it was.

He’ll draw when he’s cheerful. He’ll put one of his records on and talk about jazz if you’ll let him. Curt never knows what Owen's drawing, he won’t let him see his sketchbook. Curt likes to think he’s drawing him in there. Probably not, but a guy could dream. Owen's drawings were good, Curt knew that much. He had drawn an apple on a bar napkin one time. Curt still has it in his Box Of Important Things, as he’s dubbed it in his head. Probably not the safest way to keep secrets that would threaten his job and social standing, but Curt always chose to live life on the edge.

The tv was playing a rerun of the hearing from last week. Owen's smile was wide as it could be, and he was scribbling furiously. His smile made Curt crack one as well, not even knowing what the smile was for. After a few minutes of him scribbling and Curt watching, his head whipped towards the television. 

“This is my favorite part!” He exclaimed, uncharacteristically expressive. He jumped off the couch and sat on the floor, to be nearer to the speakers. _Like a boy on Sunday morning._ Curt thought distantly. The man Curt despised opened his mouth, _—about to distract them again, he’s sure—_ before someone else spoke up. 

_“Have you no sense of decency, sir?”_ The man on the television accused of McCarthy. The man sitting on Curt’s living room floor looked back, ready to mouth the next lines. _"If there is a God in heaven, it will do neither you nor your cause any good.”_

Owen pumped his fist in the air, like this one line would save them. Like this line would let them be who they were, love who they loved. Curt knew he knew it wasn’t true. He couldn’t possibly believe that this fixed everything. But for once in their lives, they had hope. They had something to hang on to. That made Curt want to pump his fist in the air too. 

He’ll smoke when he’s scared. He’ll walk outside and light a “fag” as he’d call them. Curt had repeatedly told him to _stop calling it that,_ but you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Though smoking was popular, Curt never tried it himself. It reminded him too much of his father, the sickly smell of smoke taking him back to a time where the words thrown at him stung more. The first time he heard the word, it was spat at him by a blonde boy with red trunks, holding him underwater. The only reason he’s alive is because a teacher saw and pulled him out. He never saw that blonde boy or his red trunks again. 

The smoke from the balcony filled the small one bedroom apartment they shared when they could. This time, Curt followed the horrid odor outside to where he was standing. 

“Hey. You want to tell me what’s going on?” Curt meant the sentence to sound jovial, but it just sounded harsh. Owen shook his head again.

“I opened our mail this morning. You got a letter.” He handed Curt the paper, not bothering to look at his partner. It read,

_Dear Mr Mega,_

_This letter is sent on behalf of the_ _House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC)._ _We have heard some rumors going around about your lifestyle, and we request your presence for a psychological evaluation. If you do not pass that, you will have a hearing to determine your ties with_ _the American Communist party._ _Arrive at 10:00am, June 6th. This is mandatory._

It’s things like these that make Curt think his mother lied about a God up in heaven. His hands shook, and he cleared his throat. 

“Huh, looks like they finally got me. Well, it was good while it lasted, eh?” Curt joked humorlessly. He didn’t laugh.

“No, it’s not. Where did I go wrong? What decision did I make that led me- _us_ here? I tried everything and you’re still going to get fired, or worse. You’ll get sent to some god-awful mental hospital, and it’s all my _fault.”_ He closed his eyes, something Curt had seen him do when he was about to cry but knew he shouldn’t. 

“Hey. Listen, whatever happens is not your fault. I’m careless and I’m brash, and this was coming. What I need you to do is not try and save me. I need you to pack your bags and leave. Buy a ticket to see your family. Don’t come back until you know what has happened to me.” Owen looked like he was going to protest, but he just took another drag of his cigarette and tsked. 

“Ok.”

Curt liked to think he knew everything about the man he loved. He knew every sign that Owen was in a mood, he knew what time Owen went to sleep, he knew Owen's favorite episode of _I Love Lucy._ What he didn’t know was what was going to happen to him once Curt was gone. Curt contemplated all the possible endings to this catastrophe while he burned his Box Of Important Things in the field behind his house. The evaluation was tomorrow, and he was going to wear his best suit. Impress Mr McCarthy, impress President Eisenhower, impress Roy Cohn. He’d be damned if he wasn’t going to go out the way he wanted. 

The hearing was short. There was enough evidence against Curt it would take days to list them all. The judge looked down on him, he who was sitting in the witness stand, defying God by lying under oath. 

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Mega?” 

At that moment, Curt knew everything he needed to know about his past, his present and his future. He knew every emotion every man like him has ever felt, and every hardship they endured. 

“Yes, your honor, I do.”

“Well, share with the class.”

“I love him.” Curt states frankly, like he’s explaining why he loves a song, or like he’s reading a newspaper. He says it like a rejoice, and he says it like a goodbye. Curt says it like Owen would.

**Author's Note:**

> oof  
> please for the love of god comment i'm starving


End file.
